


Mademoiselle

by CactusWithAGun



Series: Kids Will Be Kids [1]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Could be considered a spooky and sad story for Goretober or just October in general?, Cutting, Dialogue Heavy, Father Figures, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherly Bonding, Fatherly Feelings, Found Family, French, French Characters, Gen, Gore, I'm currently in english and should be doing work but I'm uploading stories instead aha, In the climax and falling action at least, Kinda?, Luckily I'm a virtual student so yay!, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, trigger warnings apply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27103066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CactusWithAGun/pseuds/CactusWithAGun
Summary: Warly is first suspicious of the child when she doesn’t appear for dinner, especially when all kids love waffles! She is twelve, after all.The man knew she was a mysterious one, but he uncovers a mystery he almost wishes he didn’t, yet, it’s only for the greater good, however.The poor girl shouldn’t do things like this to herself.
Relationships: Wendy & Warly (Don't Starve)
Series: Kids Will Be Kids [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050443
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42





	Mademoiselle

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! First Don't Starve story! Well, not my first, but the first one I'm posting! I have like three other chapter stories I'm writing for DST that go together (kind of? Only implied) so I got that going for me. 
> 
> This DST story actually isn't like most of my other DST stories you will see in the future. Most of my DST stories are more focused on a bond between man and monster, like my very first DST story called "Winona and the Weaver" but will it ever get finished? I don't know, that story is so old and I knew nothing about that actual way to get to the Ancient Fuelweaver so it kinda doesn't matter anymore ;)
> 
> I haven't been here in a while... a good month! I've been reading, don't worry! But haven't been doing much writing in a while until recently! So without further ado, let's get reading~!
> 
> WARNING!!!! IF YOU DIDN'T SEE THE TAGS, THIS STORY CONTAINS A LOT OF SUICIDAL TENDENCIES. BE WARNED IF THAT KIND OF STUFF IS A TRIGGER! IT'S ALSO KIND OF BLUNT SO BE WARNED!!!!

The hypothetical dinner bell rang; there wasn’t actually a bell, only Warly’s “dinner whistle”.

Most others in the Constand could cook. They could make simple meals. Not like Warly, though, who was a monster in the kitchen. He could whip up a meal so fast and so delicious that your taste buds would melt in enjoyment of anything he made. Warly, like most, but not all, was not a picky eater, and enjoyed every kind of meal he knew how to cook.

He had dainty fingers that drew along the red glistening crockpot he preferred using with sizzling food and powdery spices as they fell like raindrops into the pot. He was a kind, careful chef with a hypothetical “kiss the cook apron” and never got messy with his food. However, when cooking, of course, like the best chefs around, he wasn’t ever afraid to get a little messy. Smacking the ground beef until making perfect patties; forcefully stirring a serving of pudding, he had his fair share of flour stuck to his hands, face, and hair whenever he was working with wheat. 

He was always ready for the kitchen, but had to be careful with what he made, for with picky eaters like Wigfrid and Wurt, who while one was all meat, spice, and blood, the other was a vegetarian. That would sometimes make meals tricky, but he always had a special meal for the two of them when making food for everyone. And then again, he was feeding a lot of others who hadn’t eaten for hours. It was a key not to starve, after all. 

This could mean hours of nonstop cooking, but then again, not everyone always needed to eat. 

By the time most everyone had made it back to camp, dinner was ready. Oftentimes, like today, he would make something everyone could eat because everyone was hungry. He was a huge spoiler when it came to his meals, because they were often so good, that others would be begging him for seconds even if they were full, and he’d happily make more or serve what was left.

Today, since it had been such a calm day, he spoiled the family with a special treat; waffles, which everyone actually would eat. Even Wigfrid and Wurt, who while Wigfrid enjoyed waffles sogged with syrup and butter, Wurt liked hers plain and dry. And that was the fact.

Warly was happy to please, and when others enjoyed his cooking, that’s what made him happiest. It often reminded him of his own mother, who taught him everything he knew and more. He often believed he was taken away from her too early, and even though she knew how to cook, did she even remember the recipes he knew? She was sick, after all.

….

Not only had he made enough for everyone, but there was still some left. Wolfgang scarfed down his plate in mere minutes, and then shouted that his belly was mightily full. Ms. Wickerbottom, although she mostly eats healthily, was pleased to have a treat for a long day of hard work in the farms with Wormwood, who first picked at his waffles and then finally chewed them down. Mr. Wagstaff actually offered some to WX-78, but they were reluctant. They ate, but only one. They didn’t need to eat much. 

When Warly had pleasured himself with a stack, he looked back over at the station they ate at; a few makeshift tables, even one for the kids. He noticed, however, that while there were four finished plates thirty minutes after dinner had been served, he noticed one plate had gone untouched; syrup soaked into and sogging the waffled and cold, hardened butter from staying on the waffled for so long. 

_That’s strange_ , he thought, _no one ever rejects my cooking, especially when it’s waffles, and especially when their kids._

He tried not to be offended. Maybe whoever hadn’t eaten just wasn’t hungry, or maybe he had messed up that plate? Maybe the kid, whoever it was, just didn’t want to offend him and tell them that in truth, they didn;t like waffles? Maybe a mosquito found its way to the base camp in the clearing, much further from the swamp, and landed on the sweetness, and the child didn’t want to eat them afterwards? There were so many possibilities, possibilities he didn’t want to believe. I mean, he wouldn’t be nearly as offended if they weren’t waffled; children are picky eaters. But that sight, and the thoughts that came with it, were so strange. He hadn’t actually ever struggled to feed anyone. Maybe he would get a closer look?

Upon inspection, there was actually nothing wrong with the overly soggy waffles. He could tell they had just sat there and had gone cold, so maybe one of the children had taken an afternoon nap? Who had he seen there, anyway?

He knew Wurt ate.

Webber loves waffles.

Walter always shares his food with Woby, even when told not to.

Wilba never shies away from a fancy treat.

Wendy doesn’t always finish her food, but leaves some left, almost as if she was sharing it with Abigail, who actually couldn’t eat. In fact, Abigail couldn’t do a lot of things but whisper nonsense and fight and spin and dance. She was a ghost, after all.

But all other plates had been finished, so this last plate, hmm…

Warly thought, brushing his fingers through his curled bun, perplexed. If every other plate was finished, and this plate hadn’t been touched…

There was only one choice. It had to have been Wendy. He actually, now getting his ducks in a row, realized that Wendy wasn’t at the table the last time he had looked, but it hadn’t crossed his mind until now. There were a few instances where the kids would be late for dinner, especially Wendy, who would spend hours talking with her ghostly apparition of a twin sister.

So to the tent, Wendy and Abby’s tent, he would go.

He lifted his pants up to his full stomach to comfort the full feeling as he wandered through the tents, some decorated and others plain. He knew Wendy’s tent had some flowers growing around it that Wormwood offered to plant, in which she kindly took to the offer. But which one was hers, and which one was Wormwood’s? Only Wormwood and Wendy would know, but Wendy was nowhere in sight, and Wormwood was sitting in the farms again, planting seeds.

Warly walked over to the hobbling plant as it waddled through the sprouts, constantly shouting “Happy Birthday!” The Frenchman then proceeded with a “Bonsoir, Wormwood!”

Wormwood perked up, stray leaf twitching to the sound of the voice. He turned his head and shouted, with a friendly gasp “Friend!”

“Hello, Wormwood, how are you?”

“Oh! Planting seeds! Many birthdays today!”

“I see,” Warly stroked his beard, “ say, do you know which tent is Wendy’s? I cannot tell yours and hers apart!”

“Tent? Oh, Wormwood tent has lots of white flowers! Wendy likes red.”

“Ah, merci, my child! I have to see Wendy, it seems like she didn’t show up for dinner.”

“That too bad, dinner good. Very sticky!”

Warly crossed his arms, “you didn’t eat with your hands, right? Did you use the utensils like Wilson told you?”

“No no! Sticky sap in mouth, silly! Not hands!” Wormwood smiled and planted another seed, “happy birthday!”

It seemed like Wormwood had been distracted once again, so Warly sighed and made his way to the tent with red flowers, not the white flowers.

When he reached the tent with Wendy’s preferred color of flowers, he smiled, then frowned, then smiled again. He was pretty good with kids, so it was easy for him to get along with all kids of all types, seeing that he had always wanted kids of his own as soon as he started growing up. He, of course, had mannerisms, and called for the girl with a “salut, mademoiselle! May I come in?”

There was a lack of response. Wendy was in there, right? Warly peered through the tent’s door to see the blonde hair more frazzled than normal, and he smiled again, “mademoiselle, how are y–”

He paused. A long, deep pause with a small twitch in his eyes as they widened. Wendy sat in the tent, hair down; out of its usual pigtails, and ruffled, eyed deeper and wider than ever before, left arm sprawled out with lacerations going in the east/west direction of her wrist, and a crimson stained razor in hand.

“Get out.”

Warly gulped. He felt a cold chill run down his once warm and tender spine; this was not normal behavior of Wendy, was it? He had never seen so much blood dripping into her bunny puff roll, staining the makeshift sleeping bag with red. It dripped down her arm like a waterfall, even some spurting out and hitting her in the face. She was motionless, and so was Warly.

“Get out.”

Warly took a step back, short of breath. He hadn’t felt this sense of anguish since he lost his mom to the Constant. It was almost worse than seeing Wendy dead, rather, seeing her alive and _suffering_ somehow was worse to the french-african man. He held his breath for a good moment, then blinked for the first time in a hot second.

“GET OUT.”

Wendy’s screech sounded like that of a banshee, and Warly stumbled to the towering yell of her ear-splitting shout. He found himself lying on the ground, motionless and fatigued and with a sick feeling in his gut.

….

He hadn’t realized how much time had passed, but he saw a large tuft of black hair shining over him in the nearly darkened skies.

“Warly?” It was Wilson Higgsbury.

Warly couldn’t talk. He was shy of words at the moment.

“Warly, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. You’ve been on the ground for a good minute!” Wilson noted at the man, bloodshot in his glowing white eyes and fright filling his body.

“No,” was all he could mutter out. How could he just tell someone what he saw? “I just– I–” he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. How long had he been on the ground?

“Lemme guess, Wendy’s asleep and Abby’s protecting her? Ghosts don’t need sleep, so I’m assuming you just saw that,” Wilson is one to jump to conclusions, yet, it saved Warly some time and explaining.

“Yes.” Warly was quick with his words. He lied.

“Ah yes, Abigail can be quite protective of that girl, be more careful next time and don’t get so spooked.”

“Right.”

Warly couldn’t even save himself a sigh of relief, because in all honesty, he didn’t feel any relief. He felt _terrified_. His ear twitched hearing a faint cry from inside Wendy’s tent; a weep.

A warm and salty tear dripped from Warly’s eye to his cheek. This is not normal behavior he told himself. _Not normal, not normal, not normal at all._

“Mademoiselle?”

Wendy was crying. She didn’t say anything. All she did was cry.

Warly opened his mouth, presumably that he would have something to say, but to a young girl cutting, he had never actually prepared what to say. He has prepared meals of all sorts, but he wasn’t great at coming up with words on the spot. If you give him time to think, however, he gets creative with his words. He didn’t know what else to say besides, “I’m sorry I walked in on you… I shouldn’t have been so rude,” he tried to change the subject, but that may or may not actually have worked.

Wendy didn’t say a single word. Warly could only assume that the girl covered in blood was so _embarrassed._

“I’m so sorry, Mademoiselle.”

Wendy’s crying head twitched to the phrase. She hadn’t exactly moved much while crying, like a weeping angel, and she felt a sense of strangeness in Warly’s voice. It sounded more tender than ever.

“I don’t think you are,” Wendy renounced, voice stiff and monotone like a robot.

Warly was silent. Wendy was silent. There was a cold chill between two bodies in the tent.

“Where is Abby?” Warly once again tried to change the topic.

“Not here. In the flower.”

“I can see why.”

Wendy let out a huff; it was almost as if she was completely fine. She acted normal, despite the blood staining her cuts and face, a little bit of blood pumping through her veins and causing more blood to come out. She was… pale. Paler than normal.

“I’m sorry.”

Wendy finally took the apology. Warly could tell because she started to gently weep more. Or maybe it just hurt.

Warly took a step closer as Wendy faced her spine to the man, took another step, then ran up to her and embraced her into his soft-skinned arms. Her eyes only widened. Warly didn’t care about getting bloody; he wasn’t afraid of getting dirty.

And with that, Wendy began not to weep, but to sob.

It could practically be heard throughout the entire camp, but the others wouldn’t think much. They were used to her crying in the night. Night is the best time to cry. There were stars, stars that sometimes fell like tears. The sky sometimes cries with you if you're lucky.

He felt that fatherly self kick back in; like when he took care of his mother when she was getting old. It was almost like taking care of his own mother, but in the form of a small, blonde, bloody, souleslly eyed child.

He thought of his mother, and even he had tears welling down his face and a stuffy nose, sniffling. He was on the verge of crying too, but he had to be strong. He had to be strong for Wendy.

“You don’t get it. No one will ever get it.”

Warly sighed, sitting himself on the bunny-puff roll next to the twelve year old, “Mademoiselle, you doubt my skills. I am a master chef, but when I get the right mindset, I can be a good person to talk to if one needs. And right now, I think you need someone to talk to,” he said, finally getting his words, and act, together.

“I tried telling others. They didn’t believe me.”

“I certainly don’t think it’s because they don’t believe you, I personally think it’s because they didn’t _want_ to believe you.”

“Isn’t it already alarming for a child like I to act in such a malicious way?”

“Aren’t we trapped on a survivalist’s paradise? Anything can be alarming, but to those who have been here longer, nothing may alarm them but a Deerclops in the spring.”

“But why don’t they care?”

“I’m sure they do, but maybe you’ve given the wrong image, dear. Maybe you’ve made them believe that it’s nothing. I’m only going based on what I know about you.”

“You know nothing, then.”

Warly, dumbfounded, “maybe I don’t. Maybe I don’t… but if you tell me how you feel, then maybe I will?”

Wendy stared off into the distance, but when she realized there was no distance to stare at but the tent’s silk walls, she shuddered in her words in revulsion of her own actions, then looked down into her arms, the red causing her to see her own reflection, “if I were to bleed out and die, and came back as a ghost, would you revive me?”

Warly didn’t want to have to think about that. He knew the answer she wanted, so he refused to give it to her, “why shouldn’t I? You are family.”

“Leave me. Let me stay as a ghost. I want to feel. I want to _feel_.”

“What do you want to feel, Wendy?”

“Dead,” she said bluntly, putting the razor down in disgust of its presence.

“Mademoiselle,” Warly started, a thick blood dripping through Wendy’s arms as she began to lean, “you know you are loved, right?”

“Everyone who loves me is either dead or a monster. Abigail, Webber,” Wendy paused, thinking, “that’s it.”

“We _all_ love you.”

“That’s not true. WX does not.”

“That’s because they don't understand emotions very well. Thwir ‘empathy module’ isn’t good at responding. But Robert is teaching them.”

“Mr. Wagstaff isn’t good at teaching them then.”

“Sure… but you understand that we really all do love you, don’t you?”

“I… don’t know. I feel not loved, but tolerated.”

Warly understood that feeling. Although his mother was a kind and loving woman, sometimes it felt like as she got older, he was tolerated as a child and loved as a cook. He knew, however, his belief was unstably untrue, for his mother did love him, she just didn’t have a way to show it as she got older.

“You’re young, you’re prone to those feelings.”

“I am too young to deal with such grief on my own behalf. Had it been my mother, I would care not. But it was my sister.”

“So what’s what this is about.”

“Slightly. I’m… bleeding accordingly to how deep I cut. It looks… rather soothing to see me bleed.”

“How do you think Abby feels about you doing this?”

“Oh, she hates it greatly. But she can not stop me.”

Warly frowned, “but she tells you not to do it, right?”

“She does.”

“And you trust Abigail, right?”

“I do.”

“Then why do it?”

That caught Wendy off her speech. She fell ill on words, not knowing how to continue. Warly put a warm hand on her cold shoulder, “let’s patch those up before you bleed out.”

“I feel like fainting, I feel like dying.”

“I know, Mademoiselle, I know.”

….

The conversation was cut short by Warly taking some healing salves and makeshift bandages with silk from the last destroyed spider den. Wendy let him tend to her self-inflicted wounds. She couldn’t just let herself bleed, no, she felt like she had to _suffer_.

“You promise you won’t tell a soul, right?”

“If I mustn’t, but I think it’s important others know what you’re doing.”

“Just… don’t tell Webber, whatever you do. His poor little heart can’t take it.”

“Of course, my child.”

Wendy went silent for a good while as Warly tended to the cuts, but Warly broke the silence with “you know these will leave scars, right?”

“I practically couldn’t give a damn.”

“Language, enfant impoli.”

“Whatever.”

Warly couldn’t blame her for cursing, he actually didn’t really care much about that. He cared more for her health, not her foul-mouth.

When the caring was done, Wendy let her weak arms hang. 

“It’s late, now, night is here,” the French man foretold.

“You should go to your tent now, Warly.”

“I… I’ll be back.” Warly disappeared from Wendy’s tent. 

A few minutes after, he came back with something in hand. Wendy’s eyes lit up at the sight of the banana pop in Warly’s hand. As sad as she was, she couldn't resist the popsicle.

Warly placed the popsicle in Wendy’s hand, and she munched away on the comforting treat. She actually _smiled_ for the first time in a good while.

Warly lived to please. 

“I think it’s best I stay with you for the night. I want to watch those wounds,” Warly glanced at the pleased Wendy.

“I can agree with that,” Wendy seemed in a much better mood, “promise you won’t tell a soul?”

“Not if they don’t find out themselves. You know this family is smart.”

“You call them a family, and yet no one here is related to you.”

Warly paused, a little upset and offended. Wendy noticed this and corrected herself, “but if you see it as such, I won’t blame you.”

“Let us get some shut eye now, Mademoiselle,” Warly helped Wendy lay down after the pop was finished. She obliged, lying peacefully onto her roll.

Warly laid next to her, arm over her side in a comforting, fatherly way. “Goodnight, my Mademoiselle.”

“Bonne nuit,” Wendy said teasingly.

Warly chuckled.


End file.
